


Prescient

by confettitty



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: A LOT of Character Development, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Barebacking, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Historically Inaccurate, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nudity, POV Alternating, a lot of japanese words, atsumu has a sister lmao i swear its important to the plot, atsumu is a commoner, i tried to do as much research as possible, im thinking heian period fits best here so i tried to work around it, kiyoomi is a noble, no beta we die like men, no safesex in this period i apologize, novelist kiyoomi, painter Atsumu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29605065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confettitty/pseuds/confettitty
Summary: “Your Highness,” he pants out with his hands on his knees as though he had been running, “there is something you must see.”Kiyoomi lifts a brow. “Is it urgent?”The lack of an answer tells him enough, so Kiyoomi briskly steps past him.“It’s a painter.”His steps come to a halt, the night’s breeze whisking past his face. Not a a single painter comes to mind when he thinks about it, and he doubts his Royal Advisor would bring up something so out of the ordinary had it not have anything to do with him.Kiyoomi turns his body halfway, hands behind his back. “A painter? What of this painter?”“You must see it.” His Royal Advisor glances around them, then leans in with a hand cupping the side of his mouth. “The talk of the town claims they are reminiscent of your novels.”The words grab fiercely at Kiyoomi’s attention; make his eyes widen and eyebrows raise with surprise and intrigue. Nobody knows that he is the novelist behind all the stories that have made their way into nearly every home of the village. He is aware of how popular his stories are, but enough to make someone paint for it? Kiyoomi has never heard of such an occurrence.“Show me,” he demands.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 21
Kudos: 69
Collections: SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021





	1. Chapter 1

_“The sea under the moonlight washes its waves upon the shore. There, Hayato meets Fumiko on their third secret exchange. He sees the glow upon her naked shoulders. His hands slowly reach forward to close over the fronts of her garments. Hayato feels the exhale from her lips on his chin…”_

The crowd is silent with bated breaths.

It’s odd how warm it is considering it’s decently late into the evening, but Atsumu has little complaints because the lack of wind keeps his candle alight next to him. He’s seated with his back against the carved stones of the Great Tree’s margins, back hunched and arms resting on top of his knees, as he allows his gaze to wander.

In the distance, he hears the jingle of coins in the shaking of an old whittled basket. He catches sight of it through the blurred vision of his stifled yawn, huddles closer to his thighs, and wraps his arms around his bent knees. He shiftlessly watches as the large group of girls, _kimono_ gowns puffing out around their kneeled and seated figures, drop their coins in the basket one by one, and abstractly wonders if maybe he should become a storyteller instead.

_“... and he leans in to press a gentle kiss to her lips. It reflects all the emotions he feels for Fumiko; love, adoration, and a deep, lustful desire.”_

The women squeal excitedly, voices hushed as they pass eager looks to each other. Atsumu yawns again. “What a bore,” he mumbles to himself, lower lip jutted outward in displeasure. Curse his little sister for dragging him all the way out here at such a late hour to watch a storyteller wave his stupid novel around and spout nonsense from his mouth.

Atsumu stares down at his open palm, traces the folds in his hands and looks to his nails, dark with dirt between them.

This is Miya Atsumu’s life; it’s one of a regular commoner. The Emperor lives farther out in his Imperial Palace, where the land is richer and more fertile, textiles, grains, and livestock seemingly limitless. Atsumu isn’t much of a dreamer, but oftentimes, like nights like these when the moon shines bright and half of the town is gathered in the warm, orange glow of candle lights around the makeshift stage, he distantly wonders what it would be like to live in a castle and have two meals a day like there are festivities happening every night.

He’s not upset. This is just the life he grew up with, these townspeople are those that are familiar to him. If given the chance—no, a hypothetical option, he’d pick the _waraji_ sandals he currently wears over a life in purple _kimonos_. He would rather work odd jobs helping the townsfolk out, would rather bathe in the lake, carry fresh water from the well for ten minutes, and ferment his own pickles. This is home to him.

Sometime throughout the story, Atsumu falls asleep with his head rolled forward, and is only woken up by the shake of his sister’s hands. She laughs at him, points at the red mark on his forehead from when he had been resting it on his knee, and drags him up to his feet.

The town is quieter now, since most people have filed back home, candles blown out. He picks up his own, a hand cupped around the flame to keep it from going out, and walks along the familiar path Atsumu has grown up watching it change over time. His sister is talking his ear off about the novel she owns a copy of, thanks to Atsumu, who is very well aware of her obsession, like all the other women in the village, with this _Tsuki_ novelist.

“Do ya really love ‘em that much?” asks Atsumu, a hand closed around hers. He can’t say he’s a fan of the novelist or their pretend stories, but it makes him happy seeing his sister smile so brightly it rivals the sun. His lips curl up as their arms swing between them. They’re not so young that they still need to do this, but strange occurrences can still happen at night. Atsumu has vowed to keep his sister safe since the passing of his mother six years ago.

“Of course!” she argues defensively, then releases a sad sigh. “I hope they come out and visit sometime soon. Maybe they have no idea how much their stories are loved here.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes as he guides them up the wooden stairs of their small home. He makes a mental note of repairing that hole on the last step as he slides the door open, rugged over the years, and holds his candle forward to illuminate the space. He helps his sister pull out her futon from where it’s folded in the corner and kisses her forehead before she sleeps.

His footsteps are quiet as he steps along the _tatami,_ worn from use, and sits down by the small _oshiki_ at the other end of the room. He rubs at his eyes, hands grabbing for his brushes. Atsumu is a painter; he used to paint for fun, grew up and learned that art is a valuable trade for coins, and now he only ever paints upon request. It wasn’t easy at first. People often wanted family portraits or scrolls of dragons, koi carps, or frogs. He’s painted faces, cranes, and flowers, all things normal—the typical artwork you’d find in a noble’s home.

Never in his life did he think he’d ever have to paint the image of naked bodies.

Two days ago, he had gotten an odd request from a woman a bit older than himself. She had come to him in secrecy, handed him a novel with a lowered head and a bag of coins, and requested that he paints the love making between the lovers in the story. Thankfully, the storyteller from tonight had read the novel for him, so Atsumu doesn’t have to read it himself.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t been paying attention.

The bristles of his brush scrape along the bottom of his pool of black ink, and Atsumu imagines o-shaped mouths, long black hair, and rounded bosoms. He wills the flush of his cheeks to go away and thinks back to what the storyteller had said.

Seasides, moonlight, and naked shoulders.

There was no way Atsumu could have prepared for the repercussions. He hadn’t realized that a byproduct of feeling that weight of coins in his palm, despite how hefty it had been, would be _popularity,_ although only amongst the women _._ As amazing as it sounds, Atsumu truthfully has little need for it —he doesn’t _want_ to be recognized any more than he had been. In another world, it might have been nice. On a separate occasion, he wouldn’t have minded it.

The issue with this sort of acknowledgement is the fact that, apparently, his name has been passed around as the _artist_ of _Tsuki’s_ novels. The amount of requests that have flooded him the moment he steps out on the streets have overwhelmed him to the point of having to turn down some of those offers until he can finish his current proposals. It’s a little scary to think that people consider him one of _Tsuki’s_ fans, since the truth is almost the complete opposite. Needing and having to draw art for those useless novels have, if anything, made him despise the writer more. He doesn’t know how they look like, how old they are, or if they even reside anywhere near him, but Atsumu knows he _never_ wants to meet them.

“Thank you so much, Miya-san!” the girl exclaims, dropping a sack of coins into his hands.

“Yer welcome,” he mumbles out, embarrassed. She peeks past her shoulders, although Atsumu doesn’t know why, since it’s dead into the night, before undoing the twine around the scroll on the spot. He stands there, hands locked together under the droop of his sleeves, and watches her hold the candle up to the painting to get a better look.

“Ya painted exactly how I envisioned Fumihiro and Yuri to look like!”

Atsumu manages a small smile, which he understands looks more like a grimace, and is somewhat glad she isn’t even looking at him, a little too enraptured by the intimate position Atsumu had painted the protagonists of the novel in.

He doesn’t exactly like painting such lewd artwork, but work is work, isn’t it? He watches her back disappear into the night and waits for her to round the corner before heading back inside to crawl into the futon he had pulled out beside his sister earlier that night, then forces himself to fall asleep.

Lately, he’s been having some unexplainably vivid dreams. There were women and there were men, naked and touching, mouths all over each other. He blames it on all the art he’s been making. Maybe he needs to settle down. Atsumu would love to get married one day, but he’s still got time, so there isn’t much of an urge for him. His sister, on the other hand, won’t get any younger by the day. He turns to look at her, smiles a little at her quiet snores, and wonders if he’ll be able to find her a consort good enough to take care of her like he does.

Morning comes and Atsumu wakes up to the familiar sounds of shouts and wheels over pebbly dirt paths. He yawns, grabs a couple coins, and steps outside just in time for the old man to give him a gummy smile, his straw hat tipping when they exchange their bows.

“I’ll take that one,” Atsumu tells him as he’s always done before and steps forward to hike a medium-sized bag of rice down and onto his back. He drops his coins into the old man’s hands and thanks him with a deep bow. He sets the bag of rice by the hearth outside, then heads back out to greet the old lady with the fruits. Atsumu gives her the coins and returns home with a few persimmons, loquats, and tangerines.

This time of the year brings in the sweetest fruits, Atsumu thinks as he rinses the loquats in the pail of water he had carried up the hill. He sets all the cleaned fruits in a basket and laid it down next to his sister, then sets on out to the market in search of sweet potatoes and fish the fisherman had brought in early this morning. It's not as loud as it gets later on into the afternoon, and Atsumu prefers it this way as he hands out coins in exchange for dried fish. Atsumu's bright smile never once drops from his face as he passes by familiar faces, laughing with shop owners over old tales.

He passes by people and dips his head, _good morning_ after _good morning_ falling from his lips easily, and occasionally stops to say, "How are ya? How's the leaking? Lemme know if ya need me to stop by and fix anything! Didja want me to bring some water up? I'm headed down there later anyway."

He's about to turn and head down the path again when he hears an _Atsumu!_ and sees a wave gesturing over. Immediately, his eyes light up, toothy grin cracking across his face.

“Obaachan!” he calls out, the couple of sweet potatoes in his woven basket rolling around as he jogs up to her. She’s a sweet old lady he had once helped fix her _shoji_ for. Since then, she’s been liking seeing Atsumu come around the market. “Good morning. How are ya?”

“Lovely spring day, ain’t it?” she says with a cackle, shoulders hunched and fingers hooked behind her back. “How is Tomoka? Still sleeping?”

Atsumu gives a sheepish laugh and rubs at the back of his neck, drawing a single _tsk_ from her mouth. “That girl,” she scolds with a shake of her head, “when will she grow into the woman she’s s’pose ta be? It’s you, ain’t it? Always babyin’ her.” Atsumu hears the tease in her words and mumbles out an embarrassed apology. She gives him a look, then reaches forward to her table.

“Take it.” She urges a small jar of pickled bamboo shoots into his hands, but when Atsumu tries to hand her some of his coins, she waves him off, telling him something about saving money for this year’s winter.

He returns home to find his sister washing their garments, three loquat seeds beside her feet. He sets his basket down next to the rice he had gotten this morning and squats down, picking up a pair of his _hakama_ from the water pail and squeezing out the excess water.

“Ya didn’t hafta get the water,” Atsumu tells her, laying the garment flat against a wooden board. “Yer back’s gonna get sore.”

“It wasn’t bad,” she says, then nudges him with her elbow. “Plus, I ate some of yer loquats, so I think we can call it even."

Atsumu scoffs. “I put those out for ya, dummy.” He hoists his sleeves up to the bend of his arms and folds the soaked fabric. The spring birds chirp in accompaniment to the whackingof their sticks beating down on the boards, water splashing against bare forearms.

“Tomoka,” he starts, a little grim, “whaddaya think about my paintings?”

She pauses. “Whaddaya mean? They’re great. Do ya not like ‘em?”

It’s not that he doesn’t like them, it’s just a little bit risky. So far, all of them have been private rendezvous, and he’s certain none of the women will disclose anything to the public, but there’s still a slim chance he might be outed.

“I don’t wanna continue drawing for that dumb novelist.” He peels the fabric off and folds it the other way.

“What? Why not? The people love it, and you’ve been able to save up a lot.”

“I don’t even like their novels,” Atsumu grumbles petulantly. “They’re boring and predictable and—I dunno, what if they find out who I am? I don’t really wanna make it public that I… paint such things,” he mumbles out, the _thwack, thwack, thwack_ of the stick hitting the board through the wet garment a nice distraction for his thoughts.

He’s been thinking a lot lately. His image is important to him, but what’s worse is the fact that he can be discovered for drawing semi-erotic art of a novelist whose way of living isn’t at risk of discovery by the Imperial guards. Atsumu, on the other hand, runs that terrifying danger. He wouldn’t know what to do if he were to, one day, be held captive for his actions.

What would happen to his sister? She’d be left alone. Their parents are gone, she has no husband, and Atsumu wouldn’t be there for her anymore. The only reason why he hasn’t refused painting propositions is the income. It’s enough to keep him and his sister afloat. They even had fish _twice_ last month.

But is it really worth it?

His sister seems to consider it, too. “Hm… why don’tcha come up with a name?” she exclaims, the idea lighting up her features suddenly. “Like _Tsuki,_ you can also keep yer identity hidden, right? Although some people of this village already know, I’m sure if ya start usin’ a fake name, people will understand and respect yer anonymity. Plus,” she rolls the sleeve of her _kimono_ a little higher up and smiles cockily, “I have my influence among the crowd of fans too.” She makes a zipping motion over her lips, then leans forward to speak quietly. “I’ll make sure nobody speaks a word.”

Well, that doesn’t sound like _too_ bad of an idea, but Atsumu desperately hopes they'll get by like this. He can keep going at it for a little bit more, save up enough money for the winter time so that they can stay inside and be warm for the cold season, and then stop painting altogether.

  
  
  


Kiyoomi can hear their hushed whispers from around the corner. He squints, trying to make out the words. He leans away from the stone wall, afraid his _haori_ would get dirty, and takes quiet but definite steps towards the closed door. He can see how the candle flickers through the wooden bars of the small, rectangular window. The hushed voices grow louder with passion.

The door whips open and Kiyoomi stands towering over them, wild eyes staring at him in shock and heartbreak. It’s over. They have been caught in the act, and their secret is now out in the open. Kiyoomi’s head tilts, shoulders squared and hands behind his back as he peers at them down the slope of his nose. They lower their heads when they meet his stern gaze, knees pressed to the ground and fingers curling into the haystack.

“I-I apologize!” the boy speaks first, voice loud and clear. Kiyoomi squints down at him. “It was entirely my fault. I fell in love with her and lusted for her. I dragged her out here. Please punish me.”

“No!” she interrupts, head lifted to stare at her lover, eyes wide with tears streaming down her face. She turns to Kiyoomi, stray hairs from her knotted bun matted to her forehead. “It was me. I forced him out here for our nighttime activities because I can not live without him. Please punish me instead.” She lowers her head to the ground and sobs, hands rubbing together before her with desperation.

“You will not be punished,” Kiyoomi tells them, then closes the door behind him, “should you answer my questions.” This is exactly what Kiyoomi had wanted to see: this explosion of passion between them—the _willingness_ to risk one’s life for the other. He wanted to be able to witness pure, unadulterated emotions of genuine love and sadness. This must be it. He can get the full details of their romance, since he’s not interested in outing them anyway.

Kiyoomi’s mouth opens, but his words die on his tongue when he hears the familiar shout of a voice from outside. He turns his head to peek through the wooden bars of the door, then glances down to the two, who share a passing look of deep confusion, and sighs with his exit. He most likely won’t see these commoners again.

“Kaito,” Kiyoomi regards his Royal Advisor pointedly, dismayed that his previous scouting has been interrupted. He hears a noise behind him, glances back to see two figures scrambling into the shadows, and exhales out a sigh through his nostrils. “What is so important you must busy me at such a late hour?”

“Your Highness,” he pants out with his hands on his knees, as though he had been running his entire way here, “there is something you must see.”

Kiyoomi lifts a brow. “Is it urgent?”

His royal advisor gives him a skittish look, eyebrows anchored and fingers looped, one over the other. The lack of an answer tells him enough, so Kiyoomi briskly steps past him, suddenly tired and wanting a good night’s rest.

“It’s a painter.”

His steps come to a halt, the night’s breeze whisking past his face and sending his hair flurrying through his vision. Not a single painter comes to mind when he thinks about it, and he doubts his Royal Advisor would bring up something so out of the ordinary had it not have anything to do with him.

Kiyoomi turns his body halfway, hands behind his back. “A painter? What of this painter?”

“You must see it.” Kaito glances around them, raising suspicion in Kiyoomi, then leans in with a hand cupping the side of his mouth. “The talk of the town claims they are reminiscent of your novels.”

The words grab fiercely at Kiyoomi’s attention; make his eyes widen and eyebrows raise with surprise and intrigue. Nobody knows that he is the novelist behind all the stories that have made their way into nearly every home of the village. He is aware of how popular his stories are, but enough to make someone paint for it? Kiyoomi has never heard of such an occurrence.

“Show me,” he demands. They begin their walk back to their residence, steps quickened with anticipation, at least on Kiyoomi’s part. A painter is of the arts, too, and Kiyoomi has limitless appreciation for all artists. The knowledge of there being a painter out there who has come to love his stories enough to pull imagery from it and carve it out with their own hands using paint and a brush is exhilarating—it’s undeniably _rewarding._

Kiyoomi’s jaw tightens at the sour taste at the back of his throat, heart pumping blood hot and fast through his veins, as they step past the gate and cross the gardens to his chambers. His Royal Advisor plants his feet outside until Kiyoomi invites him in, then shuts the doors behind him quickly with an exhaled breath.

“Show me the painting,” he tells his Royal Advisor with a snap at him to hurry up. Kiyoomi sees him swallow, his greyed beard dipping down when he looks into his sleeve and pulls out a rolled up scroll.

He squints his eyes at it and chooses to keep his distance as his Royal Advisor undoes the old twine holding it together. Kiyoomi doesn’t know what he expected—something small, perhaps, or somewhat dissatisfying, since good painters are often rare—but he isn’t prepared for when it falls open and, like in slow motion, reveals itself.

Kiyoomi stares, lips tightened and jaw clenching in awe, and then reaches forward tentatively. His hard gaze flicks up to his Royal Advisor's, and has it handed over with no complaints. He takes it into his hands, fingertips on it gentle like he doesn't want to leave any imprints.

“Light a second candle for me,” Kiyoomi speaks, eyes trailing over the scroll and breath hitching when it reaches the conjoined parts of two carefully painted bodies. He imagines a hand with a brush and its glide, gentle and wistful, down the woman’s back and up to the man’s chin. Their facial expressions are _incredible,_ igniting a flame that licks up inside Kiyoomi wantingly; hungry and yearning for a romance in the hands of an artist whose name he doesn’t even know.

It’s absolutely _beautiful._

He turns to his Royal Advisor, expression attentive and voice borderline demanding. “Where have you found this?”

“In the hands of a young woman, Your Highness. She had been reluctant to let it go, so I compensated her with some gold.” He dips his head into a bow. Kiyoomi traces his gaze back to the artwork, imagines a young woman with a smile and a brush, and frowns because he doesn't fine the image fitting.

“Is the young woman the painter?”

Kaito dips his head again. “She is not, Your Highness.”

“Who is the painter?” He must know who it is.

“They go by _Taiyo.”_

Kiyoomi turns to the painting again and sees the scribble of characters at the bottom. He recognizes the passage as his own, pulled straight from one of his novels, and the title next to it. He didn’t need to read it to know, since the intimate painting gives it away so evidently. He then squints his eyes down at the short signature, _Taiyo,_ at the bottom.

“You do not know who they are?” Kiyoomi voices out with disappointment.

His Royal Advisor bows his head even lower. “I apologize, Your Highness. I assure you that I will do everything in my power to discover more of this painter.”

Night falls and Kaito is sent away to his own chambers. Kiyoomi lays in his futon, eyes to the ceiling, and wonders how— _if_ he will be able to seek out this unknown, faceless painter. He hasn’t left castle grounds in a few years, ever since he had started releasing his novels out to the public. He’s been told to stay here as often as he can—he’s urged to—and that it’s to keep him safe, but getting older means that he has come to learn that he’s really here to be hidden. He has everything he needs, so why must he leave? He has his brushes, an unlimited supply of papers, and entertainment of all sorts sent to him in order to ensure he doesn’t feel the need to explore elsewhere, but sometimes the curiosity to step away for even just a few hours is tempting.

He turns his head to the side, buckwheat pillow pressed to his cheek, and looks at the painting curling in on itself with a small sigh.

How are the people of the town? Do they truly enjoy his novels? Are they curious about who _Tsuki_ is? Don’t they desire to meet him at all? Who is this painter, and how are they able to capture such a breathtaking frame out of words that exist merely on a page?

Kiyoomi doesn’t find himself falling asleep, doesn’t feel the fatigue that usually would have settled by this time of night, and sits up. Ten minutes later, he's stepping past the gates in his wooden sandals and his sleepwear, a full-length _haori_ to his ankles in case the night is cold. He had felt the rush of wind when he left, but it’s surprisingly calmer out here.

The trail to town is a long one, but Kiyoomi has the time— _uses_ the time to freshen his mind. The adrenaline that had been coursing through his bloodstream earlier has died down, but he can still feel the vibrating pulse of it underneath. He knows of a natural lake he used to frequent as a child, back when his brother and sister used to take him there in their younger years, and thinks distantly of them as he walks. It's a bit further out, but Kiyoomi takes pleasure in this relaxing night.

The moon reflects in the waters when he gets there, the clearing as calm as he last remembers. Kiyoomi takes his seat in the grass, back leaning into a large rock. Cicadas hum from the woods behind him, loud enough for him to hear, but not so much that it’s distracting.

He tilts his head back and looks to the open sky. Kiyoomi is the youngest of his family, not necessarily a curse, but he can’t believe it to be a blessing, either. His elder brother is the crowned prince, immediate heir to the throne, and his elder sister had been long married off to nobleman’s son. If he closes his eyes, he can remember the outline of her face, sharp like his father's, but smile warm and gentle like his mother’s. She used to dote on Kiyoomi, but he hasn’t seen her in eight years.

A sound from behind him startles him, but he sighs a breath of relief when he realizes it’s a man. His hair is dark, a little long and trimmed haphazardly across his forehead, and the colour of his _kimono_ is a dark indigo, fabric worn and tearing at the hems. He hasn’t noticed Kiyoomi, not even as he steps past him mumbling a string of accented words, too quiet and too fast for Kiyoomi to understand, but he isn't curious enough to strike up a conversation with a stranger. The man comes to a halt by the lake.

Kiyoomi hugs his knees close to his chest and silently watches the man get undressed, a plethora of scars and markings littered across his back coming to view when his _kimono_ drops to a pile around his ankles. From this distance, Kiyoomi can’t make out his face, can’t really see much besides the outline of rounded shoulders and toned legs. He has an inkling of a feeling the man doesn’t eat much but puts out more effort than his body can handle. Thin, but not lacking in exercise. The true definition of a man.

The tall weeds dance, pushed to the ground when a strong wind sweeps across the valley. Kiyoomi sees him dunk his head underwater and can’t imagine how cold it is, and he finds serenity in the way the man exists in the middle of a black pool, skin glistening under the moonlight and hair flattened with excess wetness.

He doesn’t bathe for long, perhaps one to two minutes, and he steps onto the shore afterward, head shaking to get the drip out of his hair and hands running up and down arms. Kiyoomi wonders if he’s cold, and stands up to strip his _haori_ off his shoulders.

It’s then that the man notices him, shocked and stunned that someone would be out here at this time of night, Kiyoomi presumes. He walks up to the stranger and disregards the man’s nudity as he holds forward his garment.

“This will be warmer,” he states and gestures to his hand.

There's a brief pause, then, “I’ll be fine,” comes the man’s response.

But Kiyoomi is stubborn too. “You will catch a cold wearing wet clothes. Use your _kimono_ to dry your body, and you can put this on.” From this close, Kiyoomi can see the man’s face. He’s pretty in a way he doesn’t know how to describe, perhaps rugged, like he had just finished a trip down from the mountains. His lips are full, albeit a little dry, and his nose is tall and strong like the way he carries himself.

The man looks at him, but Kiyoomi’s feet stay rooted to where they are, and then he pats himself dry with his cotton _kimono._ When he’s done, Kiyoomi offers his _haori_ again and observes the way tentative fingers reach forward to curl into the soft fabric, a mumbled word of gratitude falling from his lips.

Kiyoomi doesn’t catch his name before he’s gone.

  
  
  


The walk back home is warmer for Atsumu this time. His fingers tighten around his _kimono,_ balled up in his hands, as he clutches the opening of the _haori_ closed to protect himself from the night's chill. Tomoka is already asleep by the time he crawls into his futon, hair still slightly damp, and stays sitting with his feet under his blanket until it dries enough for him to rest.

It isn’t like he can sleep anyway. His mind drifts back to the man he had seen by the lake, watched him bathe and gave him his _haori._ He’s thankful the town is silent, not a person in sight to stop him, otherwise they’d question him for the colour he wears, gold and powerful. The man had offered it to him knowing Atsumu was of the commoner class.

And stupid him, for he had taken it home with him. He strips himself again, finds an old _kimono_ tucked away in the corner and redresses himself with it. Then, he stares down at the fabric, rich underneath his fingers, and feels terrible for tainting it. He decides to fold it up and tuck it underneath his futon in case his sister wakes up tomorrow and questions him about it.

When he sleeps that night, he doesn’t dream of naked bodies and tongues, but of the mysterious nobleman by the lake, curly hair dark and eyes even darker. He dreams of slender fingers, moles, and pale skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO !!!
> 
> this is the piece i've been MOST excited to post for sakuatsu fluff week 2021 :D
> 
> i saw the royal!au and knew IMMEDIATELY that i had to write it, and since i'm much more knowledgeable in asian historical settings, i figured i would write something set in it (also because i have been DYING to write a historical!au and this just gave me the excuse to LMAO)
> 
> royalty omi and commoner atsumu !!! pls enjoy hehe updates will be weekly on saturdays :3c
> 
> come find me on my [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/milkocaine) for updates! also always open to making friendships <3
> 
> check out my other works for sakuatsu fluff week!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I still have yer—”
> 
> “Why don’t you like the novel?” the man cuts him off, and it’s that look again. He has his opinions and isn’t exactly afraid to express them, but the way the man asks it makes it sound completely genuine, and will Atsumu be a terrible man for saying such harsh words about a novel he hasn't even finished? He clears his throat and blinks to the novel, thumb gliding along the bottom, thin sheets stacked to just a mere half a pinky’s width.
> 
> “Dunno,” he starts. “I just… think it’s unrealistic.”
> 
> He’s only a stranger—he’s someone Atsumu doesn’t think he’ll see often. What harm can it do?
> 
> “The characters don’t reflect real life at all,” he continues, words beginning to tumble over each other as he rants. “The ending is too predictable, and what kinda love story is only about lovemakin'? If anything, it doesn't even feel like they're in love. I ain’t a novelist, but even though everything _looks_ correct and _sounds_ correct, this just seems like it was written by a child.”
> 
> “By—by a _child?”_ the man stammers out, incredulous.

Atsumu pushes his way through the buzz of the townsfolk with Tomoka behind him. The sun shines bright today and radiates its energy down on the crowd, more raucous than usual. The gentle spring wind carries the voices of laughter and chatter down the roads, and he stops briefly to chastise a young boy for poking around a white rabbit with a small stick he had picked up.

"The Rabbit God will curse ya, so quit it," Atsumu tells him and snatches the stick away to toss it behind him. Tomoka snickers and Atusmu _tsks,_ then gives the boy a pat on the head. "She's protectin' her kdis. How wouldja like it if I poke at ya with a stick, huh? Go find yer friends and play some _kemari."_ He watches the young boy run off before stealing a glance at the rabbit hiding underneath the shelter of a stack of wooden boards, then takes Tomoka further into town.

"Ya didn't hafta be so mean," Tomoka conveys with a small giggle. "Weren't ya just as bad as a kid?"

Atsumu frowns, arms crossed. "Yeah, well, I learned m'lesson. What? Didja wanna know how it feels to be poked by stick?" He glances around his feet, then jogs forward to pluck one off from the ground before pointing it in his sister's direction. "C'mere!" he calls out, and he's not able to stop his grin from splitting across his cheeks as she shrieks and takes off, Atsumu chasing after her with it. A bell sounds from somewhere, and he turns to see the old lady who had given him the jar of pickled bamboo shoots two weeks ago. He drops the stick and waves, then turns to find that Tomoka is gone.

It's not hard to locate her when they're here for a very specific reason. The town is flooded with women of all ages excitedly mingling amongst themselves. Atsumu thinks some of the women even have their hair tied differently.

The lineup outside the bookstore is as busy as it has always been whenever  _ Tsuki  _ releases a new novel. According to what Atsumu has picked up over the many times he has been of witness to it,  _ Tsuki  _ has been decently consistent with the announcements of their novels. This new one, however, breaks that cycle—the last one before this one had been just barely over a month ago. Atsumu can sort of see where all this excited energy is stemming from, but he can't say he's too enthusiastic about it.

He finds his sister at the back of the line and joins her, hands on his hips. "Where'd ya run off? I wasn't done teachin' ya yer lesson."

"Aw, are ya upset I outran ya?" She feigns a pout and stares at him through her lashes.

Atsumu scoffs, arms coming over each other across his chest. "No way. Ya'd never beat me in a contest, andja know that." She doesn't have much to argue with as they get closer to the front of the bookstore. Atsumu wonders if his lack of thrill shows on his face as he watches her bounce on her toes, delighted, and he resigns to glancing over his surroundings as she engages herself in a group of her friends while waiting in line.

He catches sight of a group of men and women gathered around the town shrine, incense burning in their hands. He's reminded that him and Tomoka have to make their visit soon—it's been a while since they've done their share of praying. He wonders if he should make it a daily thing, like all the other elders in town. He's about to look away when a flash of black and gold sneaks into his periphery, and he turns just in time to watch the ends of the _kimono_ disappear around the corner. He blinks away, a little confused but makes a note that it isn't much of his business.

When he makes it inside, the entire place is thronged with yellow front covers, a familiar sight Atsumu has grown accustomed to from having to make all the trips inside every three months to buy Tomoka her copy. The bookshelves are lined with them, tables setting them out on display. He grabs a random one and pays the bookkeeper for it before handing it off to his sister, who runs along to join her small group of friends, then makes his way down the steps to the small hall of archives.

This is his favourite spot of the bookstore. He's not much of a reader or a big fan of literature, but every once in a while he enjoys picking something up just to read it over. There usually isn't much accessible to commoners, so Atsumu isn't surprised to find that there isn't anything new that has been added to the collection.

Tomoka's voice ringing through the streets drags his attention out the open window of the bookstore, and he sees as she flips open the first page of the novel. It’s quieter now that everyone has come and gone, with distant squeals and shocked gasps filtering through the wooden bars. As always, _Tsuki_ must have written another romance, one with an unrealistic depiction of love and lust; it's a trope that Atsumu never thought he'd ever find himself reading growing up. He's starting to think that maybe _Tsuki_ might be right.

Perhaps this is what love really is, because Atsumu has never really loved anyone himself. Still, he can't imagine the desire of wanting to trace his fingers over noses—he doesn't know if he'll ever find a love so true he'd give up his life for it.

He allows his eyes to drop to the novel, fingers ghosting over the yellow front of the book where the sun casts its warmth upon, and eyes lowered to the brushstrokes of its title.

_ “Moonlight by the River,  _ huh?” he mumbles to himself, then glances past his shoulder before picking it up and giving it a slight toss into a catch. Atsumu stares at it for a solid five seconds before finally opening up the front cover, curiosity getting the best of him. He lets out a snort, already finding it as boring as _Tsuki's_ other novels, and continues to let his gaze trail down the lines of characters.

He’s about half of the way in when a voice disrupts him from behind. “How is it?” It’s velvet and smooth, and it triggers a small bell at the back of his head; it sounds oddly familiar, but he isn’t curious enough to look up, attempting to finish the passage he had been reading.

He does have half the mind to let out a mild scoff, though, “It’s all right.”

“How does it make you feel? Does it… make your heart beat faster?”

He barks out a laugh, thumb sliding under a page and flipping it over. What kind of question is that? Had the man not sound so genuinely curious, Atsumu might have actually turned around and beat the book down on his head. “Yer jokin’. Beat faster? This is hardly enough to make my heart skip a beat. If anything, it’s the opposite.”

The stranger doesn’t seem to provide an answer, a brief silence falling over them. At first, he thinks he might’ve left (maybe he had felt a little insulted that their opinions differ, who knows?) but Atsumu finally looks up to the man whose oddly attractive voice belonged to. He blinks. The first thing he notices is his garments, textiles rich with gold details embroidered in the black, and then is reminded of what he had saw slip away earlier. He lifts his gaze to meet a terribly handsome face, then squints.  Atsumu notes the small strand of a curl that had come loose from the knot that sits above his head, then steps a little closer.

The man doesn't move from his spot, but his head leans back, uncomfortable with the closing of their distance. He's disturbingly familiar, Atsumu finds, then widens his eyes when the recognition finally settles. At the exact same time, the man’s face, marred with a look of disbelief, quickly morphs into one of horror.

“You!” Atsumu calls out accusingly. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s implicating, but the memory from two weeks ago burns fresh in his mind, remembers the way the man had looked at him in his nudity, and flushes aggressively.

To be honest, Atsumu didn’t think he’d ever see him again. It’s obvious the man is a noble, as though the golden _haori,_ soft and silky when he had pulled it tight around his naked body that night, isn't big enough a giveaway. Atsumu, as a decently-established painter, has met a few nobles in his life, more than the average commoner, so it’s only fair that Atsumu had forgotten about him (although he did dream of him for two or three days).

“What?” the man hisses quietly, then looks past his shoulder. He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders back, blinking rapidly like he’s trying to regain his composure. “I did not expect to find you here.”

“Yeah?” Atsumu cocks a brow and snorts. “Well, I live here.”

The man, in response, nods slowly with a lackadaisical glance to his surroundings. He takes in the roofing above their heads, worn down through years of enduring cold winters and rainy springs, then the chipping away of the wood on the bookshelves. He directs his gaze back to Atsumu, innocent and wide-eyed, and taps his foot with a thump that echoes with the hollow. “Here?”

Atsumu sputters. “Well, not  _ here.  _ I meant I grew up in the village. It’s not _that_ odd seein’ me ‘round here.”

The man seems to be at a loss for words, and Atsumu isn’t exactly interested in reading the rest of the novel anymore. It wasn’t very stimulating to begin with. He snaps it closed and drops it back at the pile that he had picked it up from. This mysterious noble seems much more entertaining, even with his beauty set aside.

“I still have yer—”

“Why don’t you like the novel?” the man cuts him off, and it’s that look again. Atsumu finds himself drowning in dark irises, unable to look away. His throat bobs with a swallow, words dying on his tongue. He has his opinions and isn’t exactly afraid to express them, but the way the man asks it makes it sound completely genuine, and will Atsumu be a terrible man for saying such harsh words about a novel he hasn't even finished? Maybe, but he doesn't know the novelist personally, so he  clears his throat and blinks to the novel, thumb gliding along the bottom, thin sheets stacked to just a mere half a pinky’s width.

“Dunno,” he starts. “I just… think it’s unrealistic.”

He’s a little bolder now; remembering how much he despises having to paint these things just to make a living for both him and his sister has ignited a flame inside him, or perhaps it just burns brighter in the presence of a man who had asked for his thoughts. He’s only a stranger—he’s someone Atsumu doesn’t think he’ll see often. What harm can it do?

“The characters don’t reflect real life at all,” he continues, words beginning to tumble over each other as he rants. “The ending is too predictable, and what kinda love story is only about lovemakin'? If anything, it doesn't even feel like they're in love. I ain’t a novelist, but even though everything  _ looks  _ correct and  _ sounds  _ correct, this just seems like it was written by a child.”

“By—by a  _ child?” _ the man stammers out, incredulous. Atsumu thinks his expression looks funny, jaw dropped and eyebrows knitted in disbelief. If he reads into it a bit more, he might actually think he’s  _ offended. _

Atsumu raises a questioning brow. “Yeah? If ya haven’t read it, don’t. It’s not worth it. All of  _ Tsuki’s  _ novels are a waste of time and money. I wouldn’t wanna spend a single coin on this, if not for my li’l sister.”

The man responds almost instantly, words falling with a hardened edge. “You lack taste and judgment. These novels are splendid. You will never find these anywhere else,” the man says, and this time it’s Atsumu’s turn to feel offended. Well, yeah, Atsumu doesn’t write, but at the very least he  _ knows  _ something is bad when it is.

“Why are ya gettin’ so defensive? Don’t tell me you actually  _ enjoy  _ readin’ this rubble. Ya look like ya got higher standards than that.” Butter him up a little, right? He’s a noble, after all, but also just in case he did actually offend a stranger who could, potentially, have Atsumu’s head.

“I do have high standards. His work is fitting.”

“His?” Atsumu questions, eyes narrowing as realization dawns. “Ah, I see. Ya know the novelist. Well, it ain’t my business anyway. I don’t know him, don’t wanna know him, and hope I never meet him, so you can rest at night knowing I won’t tell anyone a single word.”

The man hums, the sound almost borderlining amusement. “I can not say I know him well.”

Atsumu squints with suspicion. “Well, I don’t care much for him.” For a short moment, they stand there, taking each other in. The sun being out means the children are playing—he recognizes the familiar voices of the young girls playing  _ odetama  _ and the scrunch and crinkle of the tiny bean bag. Atsumu notes the moles above his eyebrows, the same ones he had noticed when they had their first encounter, and finds the man’s skin looks almost golden under the glow of the early afternoon sun despite its glassy paleness.

The memory from the lake floods his mind, so clearly it’s like it happened yesterday. Atsumu has never been one to hold onto things for long, especially since there isn’t really much to hold onto. Living is easiest when he tackles it day to day, the same thing around the clock, every year, but this man has appeared twice in Atsumu’s life, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever forget those dark eyes staring into his own. Even if he does, he’s sure they’ll eventually appear in his dreams to haunt him.

Atsumu clears his throat to break the silence. “What’s yer name?”

“My name is Kiyoomi.”

“What is yer family name?”

Kiyoomi narrows his gaze. “I can not tell you.”

It’s a little odd, but fine—understandable. He’s from a noble family and, even if he hadn’t admitted it, it’s clear as day that Atsumu is just a commoner. It wouldn’t do either of them any good to know they ever even interacted.

Still, Atsumu huffs a breath. “Fine, then. I’m Miya Atsumu, but you’re allowed to call me Atsumu, only because I can’t call you anythin’ else besides Kiyoomi.” His name is a little unfamiliar rolling off the tip of his tongue—not what he had expected, but he can’t say he hates it. A brief wave of anxiety washes over him—can he really be addressing a nobleman with such informalities? Kiyoomi doesn't seem to mind, but he does take a peek at the hand Atsumu sticks out and turn away with a flap of his _haori,_ long, like the one he had given Atsumu, leaving him hanging.

He suddenly remembers it, still folded and hiding underneath his futon. Gold, a misfit.

“Hey!” Atsumu calls out, following after Kiyoomi out the bookstore. “Are ya actually upset that I don’t like his stories? They’re boring!” he calls out, frowning at the man’s lack of response. He jogs to catch up, dirt kicking up from his sandals. “If it makes ya feel any better, everyone else loves reading them. Even my sister says she wants to meet the author of these books. Hey, maybe you could set up a date—”

“I  _ told _ you,” Kiyoomi reiterates, voice resonating deeply through Atsumu’s ears, “I do not know him well.” He pauses, then sucks against his teeth like he’s being inconvenienced. “Why are you following me?’

Atsumu pauses, steps coming to a halt as Kiyoomi looks at him cautiously. He isn’t even  _ following  _ him, he just has nothing better to do. He can always find something—there’s always something that needs to be done, but, at the moment, Atsumu finds it might be all right to just enjoy the spring weather while it’s nice, even if it means being around a man akin to a prickly bush. His mind distantly conjures up an image of leaves scratching around his bare ankles.

“I wasn’t followin’ ya,” he lies defensively and pretends to find interest in the way the leaves rustle in the breeze. “We just happened to be goin’ the same direction.”

“And which direction would that be?” Kiyoomi muses, but Atsumu doesn’t know what’s so funny.

He frowns, lips formed to a pout, and crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. “Well, where are ya goin’?”

“Why should I tell you?”

A scoff escapes past Atsumu’s lips. He’s met a few noblemen before, but none of them have ever been as taciturn and stiff as Kiyoomi. As a matter of fact, they were quite mouthy themselves, as though a chance to impress a commoner doesn’t come often—it doesn’t, since they don’t generally make public appearances, at least not around this area, but the fact that they exist somewhere sipping on  _ sake  _ and laughing drunkenly about their riches over a feast is enough of a boast.

“I’m tryna make a friend outta ya here,” he responds dumbly. He didn’t know what else to say.

“A friend?” Kiyoomi echoes like he’s never heard the word before.

Atsumu’s mouth turns a little sour, an eyebrow raised questioningly. “What? Not a fan of makin’ an acquaintance? Or is it ‘cause I’m a commoner?”

Kiyoomi seems to, at that moment, look down to Atsumu’s  _ kimono.  _ Atsumu isn’t exactly self-conscious; he doesn’t really care, but the fact that he feels like he’s being judged doesn’t exactly sit well with him. At the very least, he knows Kiyoomi a little bit better than all the other nobles.

“I don’t care,” comes Kiyoomi’s response. The words themselves might have been a little rude, but Atsumu has a feeling Kiyoomi isn’t really good with them, and he also sounded surprisingly genuine enough for him to hold his tongue. “You should get a new  _ kimono.” _

Atsumu’s eyebrows furrow. It’s not really Kiyoomi’s concern what he wears. He glances down and notices the rip on his sleeve, which had split a little more since the last time he noticed. “It’s fine. It still serves its purpose.” He doesn’t tell Kiyoomi it’s because he needs to be using his money smartly—after all, he’s got a sister to take care of, too.

At the reminder of her, he thinks he should be getting her a new kimono instead, gaze catching on the navy blue of another lady’s garments, brand new and clean. He sniffs a little, then looks to Kiyoomi.

“Actually, yeah, I might get a new one. What are ya gonna do now?”

Kiyoomi takes a while to respond, irises darting from one corner to the other and lips pursed—Atsumu thinks it almost looks like a pout. “Well,” he speaks casually, then makes a vague gesture with his hand, “I was just going to… take a gander around the area.”

The corner of Atsumu’s lips twitch at how uncertain the other had sounded. Well, it’s a little refreshing; he almost laughs, but holds it back in order to tell him, “Want me to show ya around?”

The nice thing about Kiyoomi is that he makes him feel kind of energized. He provides a sort of newness to Atsumu’s life that’s akin to a breath of fresh air, chilling lake water on a hot summer day; it’s looking forward to a new season knowing he’s prepared for it.

From the bit of information that Atsumu has mentally noted, Kiyoomi gives him an impression that he’s not exactly familiar with most things despite, probably, owning more than what Atsumu will ever obtain in his lifetime. He’s honest, sometimes brutally so, like when he told him he needed to get new sandals because the dirt has collected between his toenails, but he seems to be sincere in a way Atsumu can only ever show to his sister, and that’s only sometimes.

He approaches things with a sort of naivet é , an innocent curiosity evident on his expression despite it looking so ceremonious all the time. He can see it in his eyes, the way his eyebrows lift just slightly, eyes widening when he’s just beginning to understand something he’s never come to learn before.

In the back of Atsumu’s mind, he wonders if Kiyoomi has been sheltered his whole life.

Kiyoomi wanders forward to peek down at the  _ waraji  _ sandals lined up on display, the same place Atsumu had gotten his own pair half a year ago. His toes wiggle, the dirt tickling between them.

“How do they make those?”

“They’re made with straw,” Atsumu answers easily. He glances down and isn’t surprised to find that he can’t even see what Kiyoomi is wearing on his feet, hidden under the long length of his  _ kimono.  _ He assumes they’re nothing of the commoner sandals they wear.

They make their way around the corner, and Atsumu immediately speaks out a bright hello to the old man who runs the kimono market and his old wife who helps him. He jogs up to greet them, then turns to see Kiyoomi standing outside still.

“‘Tsumu!” the old man calls out, his beard as long and grey as Atsumu last remembers. “When did ya get that rip in yer sleeve?”

Atsumu raises his arm. “Ah, not sure. I’m not here to get it sewn. I’m actually lookin’ for a new  _ kimono  _ for Tomoka,” he responds cheerily, then feels the weight of a heavy gaze on the back of his neck.

“Somethin’ for the li’l lady?” the woman says with a cackle. “I hope yer lookin’ for a consort for her. It won’t do her no use wearin’ a new  _ kimono  _ ‘round here if she ain’t got nothin’ ta show for it.”

A bark of laughter leaves his lips. “Is the whole town talkin’ about it now?”

“We don’t see many women as young and fair as her nowadays. Ya needa find her a good man, ‘Tsumu. Ya know, a friend of mine visited the neighbouring village in the east and said there were many young men there looking for a wife. I’m sure it’d do some good to check there.”

The smile begins to slip from Atsumu’s face, but he stops it in time before she sees. He knows he should be finding her a consort as her older brother, but he also knows she doesn’t want to be married off yet. At the very least, he thinks she should marry someone she truly likes.

“I’ll think about it,” is what he settles on.

The old lady _tsks_ quietly and unfolds one of the garments on the table to spread it arm's width, give it a little shake, and gesture it forward. “How’s somethin’ like this?”

Atsumu smiles, doesn’t bother looking it over because it’s the same as it’s always been. “That’s fine.”

Kiyoomi steps up next to him finally, and Atsumu watches as his elders give a deep bow immediately upon recognizing his presence. Kiyoomi dips his head in response, then reaches forward for the cloth to rub it between his fingers. Atsumu can’t read the expression on his face very well, but it doesn’t seem like much of a good one.

“Isn’t there anything else?” he asks pointedly.

Atsumu gives him a stern look and cuts in before anyone can respond. “No, this is fine.” He exchanges his coins for the fabric and folds it over his arm before stepping outside again. He pauses in his footsteps, then turns to Kiyoomi with a heave of a sigh. “Ya know, even if there was somethin’ else, I wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

“There’s a lot of blue,” Kiyoomi states like it’s a fact.

Atsumu shrugs. “Not a colour of your liking?” Blue has become an association to that of the common class—indigo is commonly used because its dye is so accessible. The colours that Atsumu imagines Kiyoomi surrounds himself with: reds, yellows,  _ golds _ —that aren’t ever meant for the likes of everyone else here. He doesn’t make a point of it, but he definitely thinks it. Kiyoomi looks terribly out of place here, he deems as the townsfolk have stepped back to allocate room for them. The hushed voices drop a little quieter, eyes darting between him and Kiyoomi.

“I don’t see it often,” the taller of the two admits, then adds, "That _kimono_ is too small for you."

“I don’t blame ya. Not really yer colour anyways.” He's a little bothered that Kiyoomi isn't inconvenienced in the slightest by the circle that has formed around them. "And it's for my sister."

Kiyoomi watches him intently with pursed lips, and Atsumu wonders if he can see past all of his words to read all the secrets he has to hide inside him, like how he thinks Kiyoomi looks unbelievably pretty in the glimmering light of the sun, high above their heads, or that the curl he had noticed back at the bookstore had gotten a little longer, strands of baby hairs flying out with the blow of the gentle wind.

Atsumu is suddenly very aware of the way he looks, hair chopped messily and tied loosely behind him with his bangs, that have gotten a little longer, swept across his forehead. He wonders what Kiyoomi looks like with his hair down, then shakes the idea out of his mind. He guides them away, smiling awkwardly when the crowd disperses in the direction they take.

“So are ya gonna tell me yer family name?”

“No.” Kiyoomi’s answer is abrupt and certain, so Atsumu lets it go, passing it off as a mere joke. “Why do you want to know?”

“Is it really that weird? Are ya from a family of historians? Tax collectors? Samurai? Or maybe they’re farmers?” Atsumu questions nonchalantly. He's not really sure where they’re headed, but perhaps somewhere quieter, away from all the people.

“I can’t tell you,” is what he gets from Kiyoomi. They’ve made it down the dirt path that leads them into the forest. The trail is a little narrow, so Atsumu leads with Kiyoomi following, already very familiar with the area considering he used to go adventuring here often. He still comes, sometimes, usually in the autumns to collect wood for fires in preparation of the winter season.

“I’m not really that curious,” Atsumu reinforces just in case Kiyoomi gets the wrong idea. He really, truly doesn’t care that much, but he’d be lying if he said he isn’t even a  _ little  _ bit interested. The trail eventually opens up wider into a small clearing, a pond appearing by his feet. It’s shallow, and he knows this because he used to come here as a child to feel how the fish would kiss his knees.

He glances to his right to see Kiyoomi observing the pond with an intense gaze. He looks a little different in the day. Back at the lake that night, Atsumu didn't get the greatest look at him—the luminance from the moonlight could only do so much. Atsumu had thought he was a little rigid and cold, probably because he's a noble, but under the sunlight, he looks a little too youthful to bare such a deep frown. His features are sharp, but the sunlight smooths them out with its caress. Atsumu still stands by his initial though: Kiyoomi is quite pleasing to the eyes.

“How come I never see ya around?”

Kiyoomi slides his gaze to Atsumu, then blinks off to the distance. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

Atsumu nods like he understands, but he doesn’t really. He has an itch to ask,  _ “How come?” _ but he doesn’t. It seems like it might breach something that’s relevant to why Kiyoomi won’t tell him his clan or his family name, and he has already expressed that he doesn’t want to tell him.

So he clears his throat. “Do ya like swimming?”

“No, I don’t know how to swim.”

Atsumu turns, wide-eyed and unbelieving. “What? How don’t ya know how to  _ swim?” _ He had assumed nobles would know how to do everything, but he guesses that apparently isn’t the case—well, at least not with Kiyoomi.

“I don’t know,” he snaps, annoyed, but Atsumu can see the hint of a flush on the highs of his cheeks, and then wonders if it’s from the heat of the sun or embarrassment. He hopes it’s the latter. “Why are you asking me so many questions?”

Atsumu blinks, doesn’t know the answer to that. It’s not like he’s super conscientious of the questions he’s asking. “I dunno. Just thought I might get to know ya better.”

“Why would you want that?”

Despite such an odd question (Atsumu is tired of answering all the why’s), he thinks, at least, Kiyoomi sounds genuine. The way he asks it makes Atsumu feel somewhat unsettled though, not used to having to convey such deep thoughts into words. He supposes if it’ll really help Kiyoomi understand, he can try.

If he has to give an honest answer: most of his life has been spent taking care of his sister, which meant a lot of working. Despite painting having always been a hobby close to his heart as a child, he now often spends a lot of his days doing it for work. At some point, well, it started feeling like it was a bit of a chore. He doesn’t have many people in his life besides the people of the town, and it’s also nice to have someone his age to talk to—assuming Kiyoomi is around his age. He doesn’t look much older. If anything, he looks a little  _ younger. _

“Well,” Atsumu starts and tries to play the nonchalant card, “I just thought I could use a friend.”

Kiyoomi gives him a look, and this time it’s one that Atsumu can’t read. They spare a brief glance over each other, Atsumu trying to figure why it is that Kiyoomi is giving him that look, but then Kiyoomi opens his mouth. “Why me?”

The answer comes surprisingly easily. Atsumu says it before he even has time to think about it, “Ya look like you could use a friend too.”

Atsumu is starting to wonder if Kiyoomi just  _ does  _ that—the whole staring thing. Is it normal? Atsumu had always been taught not to stare too much, but when Kiyoomi does it, he has a feeling he means no harm. Still, it does little to wane the tension on his shoulders.

“Let’s get back,” Atsumu utters out, a hand coming up to brush his bangs to the side. They fall right back over his eyes. They crunch their way through the tall grass and forest greens, warmth filtering through the crowns of the trees around them, and back down the little dirt path they came on. They reappear ten minutes later in town when an old man runs up to them, slightly out of breath.

Atsumu blinks, confused. He doesn't recognize him, knows for certain he doesn't when the old man lifts his head, hardly regards Atsumu, and brandishes his _kimono,_ not nearly as flashy as Kiyoomi's, but still a sign of another noble nonetheless. He looks to Kiyoomi, who passes him a sideways glance, and steps forward to greet the old man. Atsumu stays rooted to his spot, tries to concern himself with the bark of the old trees, since he has a feeling he shouldn't be interrupting. He does catch, just barely in his periphery, the old man's chin tilt upward to whisper something into Kiyoomi’s ear. Atsumu doesn’t hear what he says, but he sounds rushed and a little worried. From what he can gather on his face, they seem to be in a hurry somewhere.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, turning to him, and Atsumu hates that his expression right now gives nothing away. “I must go.”

“Oh,” Atsumu sighs out, then breathes in deeply and replaces what had been on his face with a modest smile, “well, all right. See ya next time.”

Kiyoomi walks off with the old man, and Atsumu isn’t curious enough to see which direction he’s headed, so he opts for heading home. He thinks about the golden _haori_ under his futon and wonders if he should’ve given it back today.

  
  
  


When Kiyoomi gets back, his Royal Advisor gestures to the pavilion. A figure sits there, long, golden  _ kimono _ layers flooding the bench as he reaches for his  _ chawan.  _ His own Royal Advisor stands nearby to help pour tea whenever it has reached the bottom.  He only turns to regard Kiyoomi when he has fully crossed the stone bridge and sits himself on the other side of the table. He watches the tea pour into another  _ chawan,  _ but he makes no move to reach for it.

“How are you?” his brother addresses calmly.

Kiyoomi lifts his gaze to the smile on his brother’s face. “I’m alive.” The passive-aggression is there, and he knows his brother doesn’t miss it with the way the corner of his lips falters just slightly. His brother doesn't visit often, but when he does it's usually to reprimand him for something, and Kiyoomi has a pretty good idea of what it might be about. Years of this, and Kiyoomi has adjusted to it, already familiar with what's to come. Still, the tension hangs heavy in the air, thick enough for him to taste it if he wants to.

“I heard you were visiting the nearby town.”

“I was.”

“How was it?”

Kiyoomi frowns, thumb tracing the lip of his  _ chawan.  _ “It was fine.”

“Kiyoomi,” his brother starts, and Kiyoomi has to hold his sigh in as a proper sign of respect, “I do not enjoy keeping you here, but the Emperor’s words are a must.” His brother’s sleeve drags along the surface of the table as he reaches for his tea. “I hope you can understand, especially now that you are older.”

Kiyoomi finds dry humour in that last statement, because now that he’s older, he discovers it to be more difficult to comprehend. Of course, he knows he’s here only so that he doesn’t disrupt what the Emperor’s goals are for the future of their ruling, especially since his brother is the Crowned Prince, but Kiyoomi also fully believes there should be little to no damage done if all he wants is to step past what he's bound by for a while.

“I met someone,” he blurts out and watches his brother’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. Unlike Kiyoomi, his moles gather on his cheeks, just under his eyes. The Queen used to tell them that moles under the eyes are meant for those who will lead a tragic life; they will find themselves in painful situations and often cry easily. Kiyoomi distantly remembers how his older brother used to wipe at his eyes back when they were children. When he got older, his gaze turned harsher, jaw constantly squared, and Kiyoomi found that he couldn’t read him at all anymore.

“I see. Is it a commoner?”

“A friend,” he corrects, teeth clenched. “I’d like to visit him.”

His brother takes a while to respond, and Kiyoomi thinks he might discourage it but realizes he had only been taking it into consideration. He rubs at his chin, black spots of stubble grazing underneath his touch, and then drops his arm to the table. “I’ll allow short visits, and only occasionally. If you don’t bring us too much trouble, I do not care what you engage yourself in. If possible, it might be better for him to visit you instead of otherwise.”

A flurry of emotions swell up inside Kiyoomi. He isn’t sure if he should be upset about the lack of concern from his own brother about his personal matters, or if he should be thankful for being allowed out—and to bring a friend over, too.

“You should not have to seek out other things, however,” his brother adds, as though he had been observing the glee blossom on Kiyoomi’s face. “You have all that you need here. Why must you?”

Kiyoomi’s lips take a downward turn. Explaining it to his brother is too much of a hassle—he doubts he’ll be able to understand, anyway. After all, despite being siblings of only a mere four years apart, they led drastically different lives.

He lowers his gaze with his response, sturdy, “I will continue to see him.”

His brother inhales unhurriedly through his nose with his nod, but Kiyoomi can still hear the mild disappointment behind it. They don’t drag their conversation on for much longer, seeing as to how he had successfully delivered his message and probably has more important business to tend to. He stands up, Kiyoomi following suit with a deep bow of his head, then watches his brother walk the bridge to land without another word uttered as he makes his silent departure.

Kiyoomi sleeps that night and wonders why his heart rattles in his chest. After his brother had left, he had spent some time sitting alone in his pavilion to watch the sun set and cast its orange glow upon the pond, the waters reflecting it in its gentle ripples. He had been a little heavy-hearted at first, but as he tosses and turns in his futon, head pillowed by buckwheat, he realizes it might be the best he’ll ever have: the chance to meet a friend, and then the permission to keep one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy saturday !!
> 
> this chapter ended up being a little bit longer than i intended, but i'm not exactly complaining HAHA
> 
> thank you for reading and i hope you enjoyed! come find me on my [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/milkocaine) !! :D
> 
> kudos and comments are always loved and appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

Atsumu is not against meeting new people at all, not that he usually does in the first place. He knows everyone in this small town of theirs, and it isn’t like many stranger faces come by anyway.

But then there’s Kiyoomi. He isn’t afraid to admit he enjoys his company, and maybe it’s because he’s different. That's fine—completely okay with him.

_ Tsuki,  _ on the other hand, is  _ not,  _ and Atsumu  _ definitely  _ does not want to meet him. The odd request comes out of nowhere the same night he heads home with a surprised gasp from his sister and an instant hop to her feet.

“‘Tsumu! Where’ve ya been? I’ve spent the whole day lookin’ for ya!”

Confused and a little jaded from spending all day out—although it’s not necessarily new occurrence, but Kiyoomi had been a bit of a break in his routine—he manages to stifle a yawn, eyes blurring with tears, and flops down onto his butt, futon a thin layer beneath him. “What?”

“Have ya seen this?”

Atsumu lifts his head just in time to lean away from a book being shoved into his face. “What about it?” he asks, fingers pinching between his eyes to get some of the sleep out of them. He readjusts his vision to focus on the novel in his sister’s hands as she drops into a seated position next to him, then flips the novel to its very last page.

He isn’t sure what he’s looking at until she runs the pad of her finger along the tiny characters running down in two lines on the otherwise empty page. “What’s that?” he mumbles, seeing but not fully understanding.

His eyes flicker up to meet her excited ones, then reaches for the novel with an air of impassivity laced with too much aggression, as though to deflect. “Gimme that.” He raises it closer to his face to be able to read it clearer, the light from the moon too gentle tonight to make it out from an arm’s length away.

_ To my dearest painter, lover of my work, I recently had the pleasure of witnessing the magic your hands have created with my own eyes. May I say your brush strokes are absolutely beautiful? If you will, please allow me to bestow on you the kindest of words in person. _

His brain blanks out for a brief moment. Unable to register the words properly, he drifts lower to where a signature sits just under it, its handwritten strokes resembling the ones on the front covers of all his other novels.

When he does finally come around, his heart drops to his stomach—has his identity been unearthed? It can’t be—it  _ shouldn’t  _ be, otherwise there’d be people ransacking the village in pursuit for him. Clearly, however, it had still gotten around to the novelist, and that’s already a huge mistake preceding another one he doesn’t want to make.

If the man himself knows, then Atsumu has no idea who else might have seen. He mentally checks off the inkling of an idea that Kiyoomi had caught wind of it (he irrationally fears, for a moment, that he knows it’s  _ Atsumu’s  _ paintings) and presented the information to the novelist that he  _ knows,  _ despite denying them being very close, but since this novel came out only today, there’s a lofty chance that isn’t the case.

The sweat from his thumb wrinkles the thin paper, but his concern is solely upon the fact that his creations have reached one of the last people he wishes will find out. Let’s say it’s true—the novelist  _ does,  _ in fact, want to pay him some compliments in person, but  _ why  _ should Atsumu want that? He’s not going to meet him and apologetically explain how all he’s doing is being paid to paint, not because he  _ wants  _ to and  _ admires  _ his work. If anything, it’s the complete opposite.

He can’t imagine admiration from a total stranger is very rewarding, especially if he thinks he’s just a bit undeserving. He’s not very proud of this recent work of his.

The sound that leaves his mouth is meant to sound like a laugh, but it comes out as a huff of air, skittish enough for his sister to pick up on. She frowns and furrows her eyebrows, and Atsumu can’t help but think she looks so unbelievably young like this.

“What is it?” she asks with a whine, arms crossed. “Isn’t this a good thing? They said your brush strokes are beautiful!”

Of course they are—that, he doesn’t need anyone to tell him, especially not from an anonymous writer hiding behind a masked name they’ve created for himself. Atsumu has little interest in meeting him, but, with a newfound interest and drive, he gathers his supplies and begins to paint. His sister leaves her book there, and Atsumu doesn’t tell her when she wakes up that he had flipped through the story twice to recreate an image he envisions behind the colours of his eyelids. After he finishes, he sweetens it with a short message of his own.

_ Thank you, but I will not meet you. _

His painting is sold to the lady who had requested it. Before they part ways, she asks him if he knows who the novelist is after having chuckled at the personalized words at the bottom. Atsumu laughs easily and shakes his head—of course he doesn’t. She wants to know if Atsumu had intended for the novelist to see this, as it’s common knowledge for the folk of the town as to who the painter is. Everyone knows that message at the back of that novel was meant for him.

“Nah,” he says casually. In all honesty, the chances of  _ Tsuki  _ finding this is low, and Atsumu doesn’t mind if he’ll never hear from him again. He doesn’t know how his response will ever reach those eyes, but he doesn’t care too much.

He tells her, “Keep it in yer home.”

While he’s out, Atsumu heads to the market. After nearly two months, he still hasn’t forgotten about the tall, slender, and black-haired nobleman named Kiyoomi. For the first few nights, Atsumu had dreamt of him; he wondered if he’d ever see him again.

There had been something about the way he walked, gestures curious, as though he’s readily entertained by everything. Maybe it had been the way his head turned between movements, or the floating of kimono dresses to the waving of hands and unfamiliar faces. Atsumu had caught him smiling twice while listening to a conversation about the book that  _ Tsuki _ had released the day they met.

He steps down the path, gaze forward and occasionally diverted by those who call for his attention, until he meets eyes with a pair that stick out from above the heads. They’re hard to miss—Atsumu is sure everyone is looking at him considering how tall he is (Atsumu himself is one of the taller men in the village, and yet, here he is, just a couple inches shorter)—except he’s looking right back.

They hold each other’s stares for a solid two seconds, and then Kiyoomi is making his way over, dark-red _kimono_ swimming around his feet like he had come to life from one of Atsumu’s vivid dreams. He stops right before him, dips his head, and Atsumu watches the beads swing with the movement from underneath the shade of his black hat.

“Atsumu.”

He’s surprised Kiyoomi even remembers his name considering how long it’s been, but he breaks out of his stupor and into a brilliant smile.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?” He jokes, “Thought ya might’ve forgotten about me or somethin’.”

“I couldn’t,” he says, stunning Atsumu momentarily. He doesn’t know what to say to that; he hadn’t readily prepared such an honest answer right away, but he should’ve known Kiyoomi isn’t the type to be otherwise, and he’s always had a pretty good tell on people.

As though sensing the awkwardness that has settled, Kiyoomi adds, “Are you looking to buy something?”

Atsumu chooses then to look away and hum as though in thought—it acts as a good diversion from that intense gaze—then shakes his head slowly. “Not really, just lookin’ around. Are you?”

Kiyoomi gestures to the medicine shelter. “I’m here to retrieve  _ umeboshi.” _

Atsumu’s eyebrows anchor in concern and his lips are drawn downward into a frown. “Why’re ya buyin’  _ umeboshi?  _ Are ya sick?”

“I’m not sick,” Kiyoomi retaliates almost instantly. “I’ve run out.”

“Wouldja mind if I tagged along?” When Kiyoomi shakes his head, Atsumu follows him inside and watches as the other purchases a small jar of the salted plums. Atsumu himself has only ever had  _ umeboshi  _ once. He tells this to Kiyoomi as they head back out for a walk through the market.

“I was fourteen years old then, and I got real sick. My sister, seven at the time, had to run to the streets askin’ for help. We didn’t have a lotta coin back then, but she came back with a small jar of  _ umeboshi,”  _ Atsumu explains, hands lifted to mimic the size of a palm-sized ball, “and told me that the ol' man said it would cure me right away.”

Kiyoomi hums in regard. “Where were your parents?”

“My pa was never around and my ma died when Tomoka was still really young, so I grew up takin’ care of her.”

“I see,” Kiyoomi responds, then after a beat, “I’m sorry.”

Atsumu shrugs, waves him off. “Don’t be. It was sickness that got her, couldn’t do much.”

He goes on to tell him about how he had cold-sweated through his illness while consuming two a day, and felt completely better enough afterward to stop by the grandfather’s medicine shelter to thank him.

“Pretty sure they saved my life,” Atsumu finalizes with a snort. Kiyoomi glances subtly at him, but Atsumu isn’t looking. “They made me feel as powerful as a _samurai,_ y’know? Maybe more—hey, ya wanna come by for some tea?”

He didn’t actually think Kiyoomi would agree, and he still feels a little nervous as he pours tea into Kiyoomi’s  _ chawan.  _ He had welcomed him inside his home after pulling his  _ chabudai  _ out to the centre, but Kiyoomi requested to stay outside while Atsumu prepared tea at the hearth.

Atsumu thinks back to how Kiyoomi had peered over his shoulder from next to him, gaze curious as he started the small fire.

“How do you keep warm during the winter?” Kiyoomi asks, blowing gently into the steam.

Atsumu sniffs, concentrating on his own tea. “Candles. Tighter clothes. I’ve been thinkin' of diggin' the corner up this autumn to turn it into an  _ irori,  _ but,” he gestures to the corner,  _ chawan  _ raised to his lip, “it’d take up a lotta room.”

“I think… it will be worth it.” Kiyoomi sips and Atsumu watches his face intently.

“Is it—does it taste okay?”

Kiyoomi hums softly. “I’ve never had this. It’s not bad.”

The answer is expected, but Atsumu still laughs. Of course Kiyoomi has had much better tea in his life, but he still feels slightly regretful when all he has to offer is what’s available to commoners like himself.

“It’s not much, I’m sorry.”

Kiyoomi sets his tea down. Atsumu’s eyes flicker up. “Don't apologize. I’m enjoying the tea.”

A smile breaks across Atsumu's face, albeit small, but it’s still genuine. He notices Kiyoomi is looking just past him, at a spot on the floor, so Atsumu cranes his neck to look. His breath catches in his throat, heart rate skyrocketing.

“I—that’s not—”

“Do you paint?”

“No—no, no, of course not. I just—I use that for, uh—I teach Tomoka her characters. So she can read and write,” he blabbers, words stumbling over one another. Kiyoomi nods slowly and takes another drink from his tea.

“I see.”

A familiar voice rings out from behind Atsumu right at that moment, bright and clear, and they both turn to see Tomoka bouncing up the steps. He has never been so glad his conversation is being interrupted.

“‘Tsumu! Oh, hello! Yer, uh, a friend?” She immediately notes the way Kiyoomi is dressed, his  _ kimono  _ puffed like a pastry around his legs.

Atsumu cuts in, “Yeah! This is Kiyoomi. My friend. We met a while back.” Then he frowns. “Why isn’t yer hair tied?”

She laughs, embarrassed, and kneels down next to them as Atsumu chastises her. “Sorry, forgot.”

“C’mere,” he says, reaching for the fabric she hands him, then tosses an apologetic look to Kiyoomi, who shakes his head nonchalantly and gestures for him to continue. He weaves his fingers through the unkempt strands of her hair, darker than his own since he’s always out in the sun. “Ya can’t walk around town like this, y’know? It’s so messy—what were ya doin’ all afternoon?”

He can hear her pout through her words, “I was just playin’ with some of my friends.” She turns and dips her head at Kiyoomi. “Sorry.”

“I think she looks pretty with her hair down.”

Atsumu and Tomoka both flush, but for separate reasons. He ties the fabric around her hair, loose from the scalp, and pats her shoulders. “See? Better. Ya look more like a girl now.”

They chat only for a while longer before Kiyoomi has to make his departure again. The entire time, Atsumu watches them and makes the occasional comment, but it’s nice seeing Kiyoomi and his sister speak so leisurely. She lacks a bit of class, admittedly, but the nobleman never once seemed to mind.

When Kiyoomi has to go, they wave him off together as he drifts down the dirt path. Atsumu glances to his sister to find that she’s squinting back at him.  _ “That’s  _ yer friend? When didja make a friend of a  _ noble?” _

Rolling his eyes, Atsumu urges her inside while speaking, “It’s a long story, but he’s nice, right? Ya like him?”

“I  _ toldja  _ I ain’t gettin’ married yet!”

Atsumu huffs, clearing the surface of the  _ chabudai.  _ “That wasn’t at all what I was suggestin’.”

It really wasn’t, but the idea lingers now that she’s brought it up. It’s clear that Kiyoomi probably has a handful of women to court if he ever comes to it, and that Tomoka most likely won’t make that list, but the thought of it still sits bitterly at the back of his head.

He doesn’t like it, and not for the right reasons.

The next time Atsumu sees Kiyoomi again, it isn’t for another three weeks. Although it’s a significantly shorter break this time, Atsumu can definitely say that he feels like he’s missed him more.

Today, Atsumu opens the gate of his home to find Kiyoomi standing there, wide-eyed with his fist raised as though he’s just about to knock. He lowers his hand quickly and hides it under his sleeve, curved toward his back, where he usually has his fingers laced together.

“Mornin’,” Atsumu says with a smile to mask his surprise. Tomoka peeks her head out from beside him, then stares at Kiyoomi like she’s trying to read him. Kiyoomi, under her scrutiny, clears his throat and awkwardly looks to the side, lips pursed.

“We’re headed off to the market,” Atsumu tells him, trying to mitigate whatever tension is sitting upon his friend and his sister right now. He gives her a nudge to the side, then sends her a look as though telling her to  _ cut it out right now.  _ “Didja wanna come with us?”

_ “Tsuki’s  _ new novel comes out today! ‘Tsumu is gonna buy me a copy, right?” She latches onto his arm with the cheesiest smile she can put on, and Atsumu sends her a glare that fails to ease her excitement.

Atsumu misses the look Kiyoomi sends them, but turns his head to meet his gaze when he speaks, “I can come, if you will have me.”

How can they say no? Atsumu lags behind just a little bit as he watches Kiyoomi wander forward. He feels a tug on his arm, then looks down.

“Why’s he here again?” Tomoka asks.

“I dunno. Why? Is it a bad thing?” Then, he leans down a little lower to whisper directly in her ear. “Don’t tell anyone, but I think he knows  _ Tsuki.” _

The gasp of surprise from her turns a few heads, and Atsumu smacks her gently on the back while sucking in a sharp, disapproving breath through clenched teeth. He quickly looks up to see if Kiyoomi had noticed, but he seems to be strolling along just fine, hands behind his back and all.

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “I  _ toldja _ not to be surprised! ”

His sister scoffs in disbelief. “Ya  _ told  _ me not to tell anyone!”

“Same thing,” he mumbles with a huff. They’re at the book shop now, line as long as he last remembers it usually is whenever one of  _ Tsuki’s  _ new novels come out. Atsumu, instead of going inside with her this time, gives her the coins for it and joins Kiyoomi after a short jog up beside him.

Kiyoomi suddenly pauses in his steps, Atsumu nearly bumping into him, but his complaint dies on his tongue when he notices the way Kiyoomi leans onto one hip, head turned slightly to the right as he tries to listen in on a short conversation around the corner.

“What is it?” Atsumu asks curiously, stepping around him to take a glance.

Kiyoomi doesn’t give him a response. There’s a small group of girls huddled around each other, noses buried into the most recent novel . Their whispers are hushed, but their eagerness with every passing second is evident in the way their lips curl with anticipation, voices pitched and fingers pinched.

“Do you think they like it?” Kiyoomi suddenly asks, attention fully turned back on him. Atsumu’s mouth falls open, gaze flickering from the group of women to Kiyoomi, and back.

“Of course they do. Everyone here likes his stories,” says Atsumu rather matter-of-factly. He’s been aware of how most people find enjoyment in those books since day one—he still doesn’t, but he can sort of understand why.

Kiyoomi says nothing more. Atsumu follows him in his footsteps, wondering why he had been so peculiar about what they were talking about. He gets it though, he thinks, since the novelist himself hardly ever comes out. If Kiyoomi actually _does_ know him personally, he’ll probably want to relay his novels’ advancements back to his friend. He imagines it’s nice to know so many people read his books.  _ He  _ likes it when people praise him for his paintings.

Still, he changes the topic of their conversation.

“Enjoyin’ the weather today? Days are gettin’ warmer now, aren’t they,” he muses, now hyper aware of the late spring breeze caressing his cheek and combing through his hair. A little self conscious, although not entirely sure why, Atsumu lifts a hand to pat it down.

Kiyoomi hums, the sound soft enough for Atsumu to almost miss it. “It’s lovely.” There’s a brief pause, and Atsumu doesn't say anything because he has a feeling Kiyoomi isn’t done. It takes him a brief moment for his mind to reach a sort of clarity that allows him to suddenly realize Kiyoomi is offering a meal at his dwellings.

He blinks, slightly stunned. “Huh? Oh. I think… Tomoka is busy tonight,” Atsumu responds, apologetic.

Kiyoomi adds, “It can just be you.”

Oh. Atsumu can’t say he had been expecting  _ that,  _ but he responds quickly since he has no reason to say no, so why not? He finds his sister to inform her he’ll be away that night. She sticks her tongue out and tells him to have fun because she’s spending the night with a group of her friends.

The stroll to Kiyoomi’s is quite a long one. They’ve been walking for almost half an hour now. Atsumu wants to ask if Kiyoomi has to walk this path every time he comes and goes, but the silence is comforting, especially when Kiyoomi seems to be taking his time meandering about. The shade from the thin tree branches, blooming with blossoms and flowers and leaves, makes it a little chillier than he had anticipated considering the sun that still peeks out behind the wispy clouds at this hour.

Atsumu knows Kiyoomi has money. He isn't blind, and he isn't dumb either. The knowledge still does nothing to shroud the awe on his face upon arrival.

“Ya  _ live  _ here?” is the first thing Atsumu blurts out. There’s a large, dark green lake with a wide stone bridge stretching out towards a pavilion, which sits almost near the middle of it all. Right across the lake are stairs leading up to his residence, all wooden beams with red and white markings. It almost doesn’t seem believable he’s here. He feels… out of place, like it was built for sacred murmurs and Atsumu is just existing in it.

“Is there a concern?” Kiyoomi asks, as though he’s picked up on the flash of uncertainty on Atsumu’s face.

He blankets it over with a laugh and a shake of his head. "No, no, I just... have never seen anythin' like it."

He pretends to dust something off his  _ hakama  _ before following Kiyoomi up the steps and past the  _ fusuma.  _ Kiyoomi introduces him to the old man he always sees with him, Fujiwara, who Atsumu gives a deep bow to, then directs them along the southern  _ engawa _ to show him the bare branches of his wisteria trees, which are beginning to bud. Kiyoomi reminds him to come back in May, when they will be fully bloomed.

There are artifacts everywhere, some dated back to much longer ago, or perhaps they're simply models that Atsumu has never seen nor heard of because of he's of a lesser class. Everything is so pristine and tidy, like someone comes by to clean all the nooks and crannies of the place every single day.

They walk around to the east side, where the lake just comes into view, and enter past the doors there. Kiyoomi sits down in a  _ seiza _ by the  _ chabudai,  _ and Atsumu follows suit. Fujiwara prepares tea next to them, and Atsumu’s eyes follow the fluid movements of his hands before drifting up and past him to where the  _ shoji  _ has been lifted to reveal the beautiful scenery of the waters. He catches the little specks disfiguring the perfect reflection and wonders how many dragonflies like to call Kiyoomi’s home theirs, too.

Fujiwara grinds the  _ dancha  _ after roasting it, then whisks it together. The aroma fills the air as he watches the liquid pour into his  _ chawan _ . Kiyoomi turns it twice in his palms and takes a sip.

_ “Honcha,”  _ Kiyoomi tells him after setting his _chawan_ down, “the finest kind.”

Atsumu sips at it, revels in how rich its flavour is as it sits on his tongue, even after setting it down on the table. Kiyoomi truly is a nobleman. He lives on beautiful grounds, the  _ tatami  _ under his folded legs look like they're replaced often, and he consumes tea of such a grade Atsumu can’t come near imagining what he has for every meal.

Well, he doesn’t have to imagine, since he’s here for it. The sun sets and casts an orange glow upon every surface of his home, warm sunlight sneaking past the translucent paper of the half-massed  _ shoji. _

Here in this corner of the residence, it's just the two of them. Fujiwara had left them to sit in the neighbouring room, but something still feels a little amiss. It's not Kiyoomi, definitely not, so maybe it's him.

Atsumu doesn’t lift up his chopsticks. Kiyoomi doesn’t touch his, either. Then, “Is it unappealing? There are other dishes I can offer—”

“No, no, it’s not that. I just… feel…” Atsumu trails off, unable to form the words. He hasn't felt anything like this before—he's not even sure where to begin. He feels flooded, like everything is too much to take in. He isn't used to receiving so much. It's like he's been invited by the Queen to have a meal, and god knows how on earth _anybody_ is supposed to act in that situation.

“I need you to use your words, Atsumu.”

Atsumu sucks in a breath, eyes flickering from one spot on the  _ tatami _ to another. “... Overwhelmed?”

“Why?”

“I dunno, I just—I’m not… used to—this? I think.” He manages an awkward smile, wanting to alleviate some of the tension that has gathered in the muscles of his face. “It’s clear as day I don’t belong here, ya know? Feels like I’ve… I dunno… overstayed.”

“You could never. I invited you to thank you for your hospitality that time. Eat with me, Atsumu.”

He sniffles awkwardly, then attempts to pass it off as a joke. “Yeah—yeah, sorry. I dunno what I was talkin’ about—”

“It’s all right," Kiyoomi stresses his words carefully and clearly, eyes locked onto his from across to ensure he's listening. "I understand, but please, have this meal with me, Atsumu.”

He’s surprised, and though he isn’t sure if Kiyoomi really does fully understand, his words seem to appease some of that worry that has been building on him since stepping foot upon his residential grounds.

They bow their heads and pick up their chopsticks. It's the best meal Atsumu has ever had in the twenty-six years he's lived, but he thinks it might be because Kiyoomi sits through all of it with him.

Atsumu doesn’t see his sister until the very next morning. He’s still asleep, fatigued from the extensive trek back to his home, when someone shakes at his hunched figure, and he's suddenly acutely aware of the blinding sunlight peeking between the window's wooded bars.

“‘Tsumu! Wake up!”

He struggles a little to get his eyes open, eyebrows raised to his hairline to force himself conscious of his surroundings, and the first thing he sees is handwriting. He lets out a loud yawn and grabs at the novel tiredly.

_ My dearest painter, I have not heard from you. Please make it known who you are, as I would love to witness your creations for myself. _

And then the signature. Atsumu tosses it back into his sister’s open palms and collapses back onto his futon. He hears a huff from somewhere and then padded footsteps out to the genkan, and then falls asleep bathing under the warmth of the early morning sun.

Over the following weeks, Kiyoomi visits often and likewise. They spend spring mornings taking walks through town, warm afternoons when the sun is high and the ground is hot in Kiyoomi’s residence, and sometimes, if the breeze is gentle and nice, they like to walk down by that lake where they first met.

The sky is pretty as they settle down comfortably in the tall grass, a blend of reds, oranges, and purples painted in the bowl above their heads and, surprisingly, not a single cloud to mar it. The grass tickles the back of Atsumu’s neck when he leans back to lay down, arms crossed to pillow his head.

“Tell me some stories,” Atsumu says, eyelids half-mast as he gazes upon the trees up the hill on the other side of the lake. “What it’s like bein’ a noble and stuff.”

Kiyoomi hums wistfully, garnering Atsumu’s attention with a tilt of his head. “When I was younger, my brother and I used to take archery lessons together. I would get blisters on my fingertips and our family doctor would have to rub ointment on them.” There’s a brief pause, but then Kiyoomi lets out a soft chuckle. “I hated it.”

Atsumu echoes his laugh with his own. “Yeah? That sounds real fun, though.”

“I think you’d like it.”

“What else?”

“I learned how to read and write at a young age.”

That’s something Atsumu knows is special. He would have never known to read or write if he didn’t ask to be taught by the little old lady who lives next to them. She had appreciated his company since her late husband had passed away. Most of the people in the village don’t actually know how to read characters, but those that are younger have learned since having entertained it as something important with the recent rise in popularity for literature. He’s fortunate his sister can, too.

Kiyoomi asks, “How come you can read?”

“Lucky me, I gotta neighbour who taught me,” he answers easily, then yawns, loud and to the sky. “Feelin’ kinda tired now.”

“Take a nap,” he suggests, and Atsumu does. By the time he awakes, the sky has turned a dark blue—not yet black, but close enough to make him feel a little bad for keeping Kiyoomi out here. There’s a  _ haori  _ covering his body, obviously not his, and he turns to find that Kiyoomi has stripped his outer layer off in order to keep Atsumu warm.

He’s gentle when he sleeps, chest rising and falling with even breaths. His head tilts just slightly to the side, and Atsumu can so clearly see the highlight from the moon running along the slope of his nose and filling into the dip of his cupid’s bow.

Quietly, he lifts the  _ haori  _ off him to lay it back overtop of Kiyoomi’s body, hands immediately twitching back when he stirs, eyelashes fluttering open.

“Good mornin’,” Atsumu jokes, although his voice comes out croaky from having just woken up himself. “Nice nap?”

Kiyoomi is surprisingly witty when he just wakes up. “I believe so. I suppose you had a nice one too?”

“Hah! Ya think yer funny?”

He snorts, head rolling to the other side with a stifled yawn. “Perhaps a little bit.”

For a few seconds, Atsumu observes his side profile. With his eyes closed, his lashes are long enough to curl against the highs of his cheeks, silver under moon. Atsumu has never worried too much about finding a wife himself, and he’s never been in love either, so maybe he doesn’t have much of a right to judge the romance novelist on his work.

But for what it’s worth, Atsumu thinks Kiyoomi seems to be someone who’s easy to fall in love with.

He doesn’t know why he vocalizes his next words, but he’s a little too tired to wonder further, a little too comfortable in his skin right now to consider what the aftermath might be like. “Have ya ever loved someone?”

“I haven’t,” comes Kiyoomi’s answer.

Atsumu asks, surprised, “Really? Nobody?”

“I love my mother. Does that count?”

“Well, sure. Do ya see her often?” He doesn’t recall seeing anybody else living with Kiyoomi. He’s starting to wonder if Fujiwara is his only friend, but still—it’s a bit of a wide age gap to be considering them friendly buddies. Plus, the way they converse with each other does little to solidify that idea. He almost seems like a helper.

Kiyoomi shakes his head, just a little bit.

“Oh. Do ya miss her?”

“Sometimes.” He sounds melancholic, but he doesn’t give too much away because his face steels over quickly. Atsumu isn’t one to push, especially since it sounds a bit like a touchy subject, so he diverts it back to his original intent.

“But, uh—I meant… like, romantically? Yeah, that. Ya never loved anyone like that?”

“No.”

Atsumu swallows the dryness in his throat, eyes searching Kiyoomi’s for any changes in his expression, then turns away with an exaggerated sigh. “Me neither.”

“Atsumu.” He turns at the sound of his name and feels his heart flutter inside his chest.

“Yeah?” He hates how hoarse his voice sounds, afraid his nervousness lets out.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, as Kiyoomi rotates onto his side and leans forward with a gaze so intense it makes his tummy warm, Atsumu imagines what he had expected his first kiss would be like. It’s soft skin under fingertips, calloused with hours of hard labour out in hot sun and freezing snowfall, sweet nothings whispered into the shell of thin ears and flushed cheeks.

This is Kiyoomi’s hands cupping his face, gentle like he doesn’t want to scare him off. It’s Atsumu not pulling away when their noses bump gently, leaning forward instead to close that gap between them. There are no sparks like how he thought would have burst behind closed eyelids—nothing magical.

But the way his heart melts and then picks up like it’s a star shooting across the dark sky is ineffable, so he holds onto that feeling instead. He shifts forward, a hand coming to rest on Kiyoomi’s shoulder to grip it lightly, and kisses back clumsily because it’s Atsumu's first time, and he thinks it might be Kiyoomi's too.

Atsumu pulls back, mildly breathless, but he doesn’t move away further. Neither does Kiyoomi. It’s the other who speaks first, and it sucks the rest of the air right out from Atsumu’s lungs.

“Let me kiss you again, Atsumu.”

And he has no reason to say no, so Kiyoomi rolls over on top of him to press him into the earth, hands tentative as they hover over the flap of Atsumu’s  _ kimono. _ A hand closes around cold, slender fingers to pull them down and under, and Atsumu lets out the quietest breath, shaky and shuddered, before drawing Kiyoomi in for another kiss.

Spring nights are often a little chilly, but it’s almost too warm with the way Kiyoomi caresses along the base of his neck and kisses him with his head thrown back. Never in his life did Atsumu think he’d ever have sex with someone before marriage, and much less a man, but one sin to commit can’t be too bad if all Atsumu has ever done is good, right?

Right, he tells himself, because when Atsumu looks at him and asks him to touch him, he doesn’t think something like this  _ can’t  _ be the best thing to ever happen to him. Kiyoomi makes it so easy to love, and Atsumu doesn’t have the time to see the mistake he’s making when the stars wink at him so prettily and Kiyoomi looks so unbelievably beautiful above him, afraid he'll miss something that the universe might sneak away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi !!!
> 
> im so sorry ive been mia :(( i got into a little bit of a slump and needed a bit of a pick me up
> 
> as i slowly get back into the swing of things, i have MANY exciting aus coming up !! i overestimated my abilities and realized i definitely cannot do three regular updates per week HAHAHA i have learned from my mistakes
> 
> do not worry, all my fics will be finished (are already finished, i just do a shit ton of heavy editing LOL)
> 
> ur allowed to yell at me and bonk my head on my  twitter  since im always looking for friends !!


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